


The Empty Throne

by aleatoryContingency



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen, Ghost psychiatry is not a recommended treatment, I Admit It, I also love the hart, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3327005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleatoryContingency/pseuds/aleatoryContingency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noted bigmouth, soft touch and Circle Archivist Elayne Trevalyan is in way out of her depth. Sure, she can joke, but can she hold it all together while the world goes to hell in a Rift-shaped handbasket? Featuring: Romance! Adventure! Spiders! Non-consensual Headfuckery! Consensual Headfuckery! Vivienne as a relatable character!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Guest

“My dear Inquisitor,” a cut-glass voice sliced through the gentle buzz of the Great Hall, pitched slightly too loud for private conversation, “you simply must do something about the décor in here. Yes, I understand that bleak and warlike is very much the mode this season, but there is no need for it within the hold, surely?”  
Two tall figures could be seen below, weaving through the mill of guests, dignitaries, servants and messengers in the Hall below.  
“Stained glass,” the dark-skinned figure waved a long, elegant hand at the windows behind the throne, and then at the throne itself “A more impressive throne, with less....swords”. She gestured more broadly across the Hall. “Tapestries. Curtains. Gold inlay. Mosaics. Fine furniture.” The voice continued but was muffled into indistinctness as the figures turned from the Hall and began climbing a set of stairs.

Emerging at the top of the stairs, the Inquisitor laughed easily and shook her head, her deeper voice much harder to make out from a distance, “Of course I bow to your understanding of the mode, Enchanter Vivienne, but food, weapons, and firewood are my priorities at the moment. The place is _freezing_ , even in the parts with a roof. Perhaps when the Inquisition is in a stronger position, I can ask my advisors to turn their hands to making the place a bit more...comfortable.” 

The woman – the much anticipated “Enchanter Vivienne”, apparently - stopped and spun to face the Inquisitor, long coat tails flaring out with the movement. “Comfort is a luxury, Inquisitor, but extravagance is a necessity. If you wish to bring Orlais to heel, that is. Trust me, my dear. Your visitors must be impressed, overwhelmed by Skyhold. They must be brought to believe through all their senses that only you hold the power to keep Thedas together, to mend the Tear in the Sky. Then they will come to you begging for aid, as petitioners rather than equals.” 

She sighed a little, the intensity draining from her tone, and reached forward to take both the Inquisitors hands in her own, turning them over so the Mark on the Inquisitor's palm was exposed, that eerie green light pulsing and glowing. The Inquisitor looked down unwillingly, her face pale in the strange light. “Elayne, I hope you do not mind my familiarity, but we are from the same Circle, are we not? Many believe that this marks you as the Herald of Andraste. Whether you believe it or not, you must use the power that gives you. I believe that you are our best hope of surviving this madness, of preventing Thedas from disappearing into barbarism, blood magic and chaos.” 

Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his spot near the newly furnished parlour, having delivered in person the precious books and scrolls the Inquisitor had begun accumulating for her newest guest. Realising that he had no desire to intrude on such a personal conversation, he looked around and decided that, discretion being the better part of valour, he would retire to the balcony. Slipping away surprisingly quietly for a man in full armour, _Thank the Maker for a lifetime's habit of diligent maintenance_ , he looked out over the courtyard, golden in the last of the evening light, eyes drawn inexorably to the recruits below. They appeared to be attempting some introductory sword-work, Ser Osric was instructing, and the Iron Bull propped up a wall in the sun outside the tavern nearby. The recruits - was one of them left-handed? She seemed strangely awkward with her wooden sword. _Might need Ser Wrye to have a chat to her, he's an oddhand. And a bloody good swordsman. Too much to ask that he not be an arrogant Orlesian swine as well? Still, the woman looks like she could hold her own._

His attention was drawn back to the conversation inside, though he kept his gaze firmly on the recruits, as the Inquisitor sounded suddenly much younger, less certain. “Oh, how shall I bear it, Vivienne?” Her voice wavered, then came back under control. “The responsibility? People live and die on my whim, just as much on my bad days as on my best ones. I've never held command, never led people before. I was a scholar, an archivist! I can rule a library with an iron fist, but this? I'm so out of my depth, it's absurd!” She took a deep breath, and sighed it out. “That isn't what you wanted to hear, is it? That I'd run from all of this in a heartbeat, if I could.” A pause. Eventually, Vivienne replied. “Evelyn. Here is what I have learned - to hold power is to have control. Trust me, my dear, it is infinitely better to lead from Skyhold, mistakes and all, than to cower out there, waiting for the chaos to come for you. To act, rather than react, to take the battle to the grounds of your choosing. That is the privilege of power. And the cost is regret. You will learn to make your decisions, and then live with them, learn from them.” 

The Inquisitor was very quiet for a moment. “Andraste preserve me. I should not have said so much. For a moment...I felt like I was back at the Tower, talking to my mentor. Enchanter Vivienne, I will rely on your guidance, but I must learn to guard myself better.” Her tone warming, she added, “Perhaps you will do me the very great kindness of forgetting that this conversation ever happened?”  
“Of course, my dear, you may rely on my absolute discretion.” And then, clearly changing the subject and returning to her habitual formality, “And what was it that you wished to show me, Inquisitor?” 

Taking her lead, the Inquisitor immediately guided her guest towards the parlour, which opened onto the balcony. “But yes! I wanted to show you the view and the private parlour I've had prepared for your use. I imagined that you might like it up here – to be in the middle of it all, and yet, above it...” She chuckled, “Well, it seemed right for you. What do you think?”  
"For someone who doesn't know me very well, Inquisitor, you presume quite a bit about my preferences," a pause...then Vivienne's frosty tone altered, and Cullen realised that she was teasing the Inquisitor. "Correctly, fortunately for you. This will do nicely." _A move in the Game? A warning? Or just joking with a younger colleague?_. Ugh, Orlesians made his head hurt. 

Cullen turned at last to face them as they walked onto the balcony. Having had many years to perfect his ability to not hear conversations he was not meant to be a part of, he bowed slightly and produced what he hoped was an expression of pleased surprise. “Inquisitor. And Enchanter Vivienne, I presume? Quite a view, is it not?” Now that he could see her up close, the mage met all his expectations of an Orlesian courtier, and more. She was tall, strikingly beautiful, her posture regal, her smile a little disdainful, and her costume perfectly preposterous. The horned headdress was at least as ridiculous as Cole's beloved hat, and yet... she looked perfectly - herself. “Commander Cullen,” Vivienne's shrewd glance at once recognising that he had been in a position to overhear the whole encounter. “So pleased to make you acquaintance. I do enjoy a man who knows how to keep quiet.” She moved to look out over the courtyard, taking it all in – the sounds of weapons clanging as the recruits sparred, groans from the infirmary, bartering, chattering and complaining of soldiers and refugees and, above it all, the descant of the compline Chant faint but clear from Andraste's shrine.  
“One could almost imagine, looking out there, that Skyhold had always been fully occupied.” Then, tilting her head at the broken top of the tower opposite, and looking across at the scaffolding propping up the far side of her parlour, “But then, no. It is clearly a work in progress. I do hope that you, at least, take our appearances seriously? We won't impress our visitors with a crumbling ruin.” Cullen acknowledged the statement with a nod, but before he could speak the Inquisitor interrupted, her voice warm. “Ah, Madame de Fer, they named you truly.” She moved to Cullen's other side and leaned her elbows on the balcony casually, adding “The Iron Lady is implacable in her drive to make us into an impressive force! She seems to believe that the velvet glove is at least as important as the iron fist. What say you, Commander? Are we defensible yet?”

“We approach that state – once the bridge repairs are complete and we have sufficient archers to protect the approach. We are repairing the salvageable trebuchets, and when they are in place, they will cover the road up to the pass. Skyhold itself is strong and still fairly sound - It makes me wonder why it was abandoned. Oh, and on the topic of archers, Inquisitor, we need fletchers and feathers. May I add that to the list for your next Hinterlands venture?”  
She gave him a direct look, “Well, if by that you mean that you put on the bottom of the arm length scroll of other “Extremely Urgent Actionables” that I carry with me all times, then yes. Certainly! Or would that be a “Very Urgent Actionable”? That's a different scroll.” He smiled a little at her sally. “No more than Moderately Urgent, Lady Trevelyan. We have no indication of any force strong enough to move against us in person at present. I just want to be ready, should anything happen. Not like Haven. I hope never to be in that position again. Maker, we lost so many!” The guilt and frustration boiled up again, as it did so quickly these days, and he squeezed the railing hard enough to make his fingers ache.  
Her face fell, and he regretted speaking so freely. _Didn't you just hear her say she would leave if she could, that she can hardly bear the strain?_ “You're right, of course. We have so many more people now, we must be ready to protect them. I shall take _all three_ scrolls with me when I go.” she deadpanned, but he could tell that the light mood that she had carefully rebuilt was now only a thin veneer over troubled thoughts. 

“My dear Inquisitor, you must not let yourself get bogged down in the minutiae of running an army! You must learn to delegate!” Vivienne looked sharply from the Inquisitor to Cullen and added, “You too, Commander. The Inquisition is too large now for you to manage every detail. You must both preserve your energy and spend it where the Inquisition may best benefit.”  
Having availed them of her wisdom, she turned and went back into the parlour to investigate the small pile of books and scrolls the Inquisitor had started to hunt out from all over Thedas, at her request. “Oh, Vitrixeous's Malvoleum! I haven't seen one of these in years! She picked up a hefty leather-bound tome, flipping through to the last pages “And with the complete Appendices!” The Enchanter sounded most pleased. “But of course!” The Inquisitor laughed, her eyes crinkling up against the last light of the brilliant sunset, “Archivist, remember?”. 

As Vivianne investigated the contents of a tattered, and somewhat scorched scroll, Cullen turned back to the Inquisitor. “It's true,” he reflected, “Our forces are now at least four times as large as those I commanded in Kirkwall, and with luck we may add the remaining Templars to that number. I am reaching the outer limits of my experience.” Lady Trevalyen let out a dark “Ha!”, then grinned and added “Well, I exceeded my leadership experience as soon as I was in charge of more than a library and a few apprentice-archivists. To be fair, it was a magical library, with its share of seriously dangerous grimoires, but compared to this....I can safely say that I've no idea what I'm doing, either.”  
Her humour was contagious and he found himself laughing a little “Well, you seem to be picking it up fairly quickly. And with,” he nodded his head towards Vivienne, now deeply engrossed in the less burned parts of the scroll, “uh – Herself around, you will have no shortage of advice. Just take care that you don't become like the Chantry cushion, bearing the impression of the person who has most recently sat on you...”  
“Cullen! Was that...a joke? “Levity Unbecoming”! That would have been a week of guard duty in the rain at Ostwick. Was the knight-commander at your circle a soft touch then?”  
Instead of laughing, his face grew serious again, and she quickly added “Oh, my big mouth! I didn't mean to pry! Or bring up bad memories?”  
He coughed, and cleared his throat. “Ah, all my knight-commanders have been on a spectrum ranging from...uh, severe,” He thought of Greagoir, rostering him on for Leandra Surana's Harrowing... “to, um...criminally insane.” _Meredith_. “So, no. No soft touches.” _In any sense of that phrase._  
“Oh. I'm sorry!” Her apology was so clearly heartfelt that he couldn't be irritated with her. “If it's any help, I was always in trouble at Ostwick, and I don't think they were particularly harsh, from what I've heard from other mages. My tongue tends to run away with me,” She glanced quickly up at him and then away across the courtyard “as you've probably noticed. Never learned to bite it. Enchanter Iraden used to threaten to glue my teeth together!”  
Vivienne looked up from her scroll, engaged again. “Did he? Did you know that he was a dreadful troublemaker as an apprentice? We were in the same year. I remember the episode with the First Enchanters bedclothes, and the incident with the stone-eating slime. To think of Iraden of all people, giving apprentices what for! How absurd!” She seemed amused at this idea, and placing the scroll back down onto the desk, said “Thank you, Inquisitor, for your time, and for making up this parlour for me. I shall visit with some familiar faces we passed in the Hall before our evening meal. Perhaps we will speak more later. Pleased to meet you, Commander.”  
Resuming her full Madame de Fer demeanour at the stairwell, she glided off downstairs. Cullen turned to the Inquisitor “I should also go, I have a great deal I would like to accomplish yet tonight.”  
She smiled, “Of course, Commander. Do add the feathers and, what was it? Oh yes – fletchers – to my list. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, may I suggest our good friend Sera? I understand that she can make her own arrows if pressed. Perhaps she could instruct some recruits in such mysteries? I know for a fact that Josephine has chocolates, and if Leliana hasn't eaten them all yet...”  
“Yes, I've heard from the kitchens about Sera's sweet tooth. But I wonder if it would be better coming from you? We don’t...that is, she – uh. She makes me very uncomfortable. Enjoys it!” He noticed himself rubbing his neck and stopped immediately.  
Elayne – _The Inquisitor_ – he reminded himself, grinned appreciatively. “I don't think so, Commander – I solved your problem for you, if you're brave enough to engage the solution! I'll leave it to you to decide...”  
She pushed up off the balcony and headed indoors towards the Tower, waving a hand “Got to see a man about a dog, see you in the War Room after Vespers.”  
He nodded, defeated. “As you say, Inquisitor.”


	2. Wrong Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was starting to wonder if this hurt was the wrong shape for him to fix, that perhaps he and the hurt were too similar, each attempted healing a re-wounding.

When he didn’t choose for them to see him, Cole could simply shift, sideways and across, just a tiny shade off this plane. There and not-there. But it was getting harder, the more they saw him as _him_. If they still saw him as “it”, well, that helped (and didn’t help, depending). He sat, legs swinging, from the highest shelf, looking down onto the man seated at the desk. This one’s hurt called to him often and often. So many failed, foiled, folded attempts already…Either it didn’t work at all or the man saw him as a demon, started pulling him into that shape with the force of his belief, the man’s memories twisting his edges into something wrong. And he was noticing Cole more quickly each time, making it harder to go back, undo and start over. He was starting to wonder if this hurt was the wrong shape for him to fix, that perhaps he and the hurt were too similar, each attempted healing a re-wounding. _Wait, and listen,_ he told himself. _Listen to the song to find the counter-harmony._

A movement below caught his attention, as Cullen freshened the ink on his quill and scratched a brief note at the bottom of a report, then sighed and rubbed his face. He placed the paper on a pile of other papers and stretched his shoulders, looked around. The room was mostly darkness with a splash of golden light around that pooled from the candle in its bright brass stand, sun long since fallen into the distant peaks. It was quiet, with only a few gentle night sounds disturbing the clear, piercing quiet of the mountaintop. 

Above, Cole held out a long, pale hand - could almost touch the hurt. It became more vivid with each passing week. A weary, aching hurt with a sick, seeping centre. A skein of memories, unwinding. Underneath it all, a small, new feeling. A seed seeking the sunlight. The tiny stolen pleasure of arranging to be in the hall she must surely pass, perhaps before Mids, perhaps after evensong in the hall. A smoored coal of anticipation cradled inside where no-one can see. Face carefully calm even under cover of steel. And then, tangled up and twining into the heart of it, guilt and shame tarnishing, turning everything oily and wrong. 

Her face, a shy smile. Her face, twisting with thwarted fury, spitting poisonous words; “I know all about your pathetic secrets, your disgusting thoughts. What do you think brought me here, gave me this power? I will break you with them, like all of the others.” Her face, open and eager, eyes dark with requited desire, her fingers tugging at the laces. “Will you meet me somewhere? Tonight? I need to talk to you about something...”

He must not look. He closes his eyes and speaks the words hurt her, that make her hate him, that turn her hands to claws and her teeth to fangs. He speaks the words. “O Maker, hear my cry! Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.” He speaks the words. "No. I will not." She turns away, teeth white in a newly sharp smile, tail lashing. “I can wait. I have time. Can you wait, Templar? It has been days. Nobody is coming. You can wait and suffer and die, or you can have everything you wish for. You will die, regardless.” She walks away, tail becoming skirts, swishing. “See you later, lover”. It's almost worse when she leaves him alone. 

The man reaches into a drawer and takes out a box. Inside is a little bottle that sings. Cole can hear its song, so beautiful, a song of forgetting. He is made of the same music, it is how he can be here and not-here, how he can undo the wrong things he says. Leaning forward over the desk, the man looks for a long time at the little bottle, until the candle gutters, sending the light wavering and shattering across the room. He breathes out. Closes the box and puts it back in the drawer. Pulls another paper from the smaller pile and starts to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cole. He is my creepy little spirit buddy.


	3. An Extraordinary Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tirashan Swiftwind – Unnervingly intelligent; willing to "correct" its rider. It will not suffer fools. Available for purchase at Skyhold.

Dropping the reins, Elayne sighed and pulled her shoulders back, stretching her arms behind her, trying to dislodge the permanent ache in her shoulders. Then she leaned forward and rubbed her lower back vigorously, emitting a low groan. Riding all day, sleeping on the ground for weeks at a time, and having the most stressful job in Thedas was taking it's toll. And she wasn't sure that buying the hart had been a wise investment of Inquisition resources. He _was_ impressive, though. And his strange, honking bellow was as good as a war horn for startling the bandit encampments. 

Cassandra turned and, seeing her petting the beast, made a disapproving face. “Maker, that sound! I cannot grow used to it. And I believe that you are encouraging it!”  
Scouting a little ahead, Solas slowed his gelding and looked over. “Harts are intelligent, perceptive creatures, Seeker. Perhaps the beast is responding to your calls?”  
“My calls? What do you...Ugh!”  
Right on cue, the beast bellowed again, shaking his massive, branching horns from side to side.  
Solas smiled slightly, then nudged his horse forward again. “Precisely, Seeker.”  
Elayne giggled helplessly and turned away to avoid Cassandra's glare.  
“Inquisitor, do you really intend to continue riding that...thing?”

Elayne looked down at her wonderful, absurd mount. “Well, Spike, I know she's not very polite, but you really are going to have to learn to get on. I need her. Because; bears.” The hart chuffed and snorted. “Yes, exactly. Bears are a big problem for all of us. Just promise me you'll try?” He twisted his neck and looked at her from a huge slitted eye. “Good boy.” Then she leaned towards his head, shifted her balance and suddenly they leapt forward together, and in a couple of breaths had taken the lead from Solas, the Inquisitor's tall frame elegantly balanced with each huge stride. 

Sera trotted up to Cassandra, catching up at last. “Oh, tits. How am I s'posed to keep up with that frigging moose thing? I already have blisters on my...” “Hart” Cassandra corrected absently. “And now I am instructed to befriend it. Sera, will you teach me some stronger curses? I find I am in need of them.”  
Sera grinned. “Seeker, I my whole life I've dreamed of the chance to say my best swears to a princess. Where'd ya wanna start? Andraste's grubby taint? Maker's crusty jizz rag?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just trying to get back into it! Just a funny snippet to get things moving :)


	4. The Small Hours of the Night

The tent was leaking, where the waxed tent canvas drooped against its ties, allowing a pool of water to form. Water dripped on Evelyn’s leg at slow, uneven intervals, fat drops that soaked into her blankets and chilled her skin. Kicking her leg out of the blankets she pushed a toe into the canvas beneath the pool and dislodged the water to flow down the side of the low tent. A pale glow lightened the dull sage of the canvas – dawn. _Too soon._ She had slept badly, unable to get warm, body twisted awkwardly to avoid the worst of the drips. It was times like these that she chafed most against the Circle’s (and the Chantry’s) attitudes to casual magic. Surely it was not an act of “ruling man” to put up a barrier glyph against the eternal, infernal rain? Was using a fire spell to heat cold rations really the first step towards becoming a malificar? If her job was to save the world, wouldn’t it be better for everybody if she was well rested and warm? Wouldn’t she have more focus for closing rifts during the day if her tent didn’t drip all over her every night? 

Yet the force of long habit and droning repetition of the dangers of ill-considered magic stopped her. Instead, she felt for her staff and propped it up inside the saggy corner of canvas, buttressed against her pack. _I bet Dorian is warm. And dry.”_. Still, the Magisterium he hailed from was also the best example of why unconstrained magic use was, to put it lightly, a pretty terrible idea. She could hardly even imagine it, a place where mages were a powerful elite, rather than a oppressed bunch of stolen children. Well, no. That was unfair. There had once been a sense of shared experience, collegial affection and community in the towers. Not for a long time, but she could remember when she had felt like a part of something – good? No that was the wrong word. Maybe “sustainable”. Something that worked fairly well for most people. But the balance had shifted for the mages, so slowly she couldn’t say when it started to change, until the towers became their prisons, and their Templars, jailers. A feedback loop of fear, control and resistance that, once unwittingly begun, could not be stopped. That had led to the shattering of the fragile peace slowly built since the last Blight. And the start of it all, the fall of Kinloch Tower, way back at the start of the blight. A fall caused by mages becoming malificar, succumbing to the temptation of blood magic. _How_ could _they?_ After everything that they had learned. After risking their own lives to prove themselves in the Harrowing? How could they then choose to use it? And yet, there was no way to stop them if they did. Every mage carried around beneath their skin the means to acquire power beyond even their gift, quickly, easily. A knife, a few words, and the will to do it. The will to risk every mage, every Templar. If not to mind control or abomination, then to the Cleansing that would follow. She shook her head, trying to shake these unhelpful thoughts. She needed to sleep, there wasn't long left. But the thought echoed in her head. _How could they?_

Pulled to wakefulness again by movement outside, she came awake all at once. Camp noises only, thank the Maker. After being ambushed by rogue Templars in the Hinterlands, she had become a much lighter sleeper, ear tuning to the noises of camp and the noises that could be... something else. She'd had no need to be a light sleeper before. The dangers inside the Tower were much more insidious, much less likely to slash through your tent with a sword, and more likely to slowly poison your thoughts with anger and revenge. Sitting up, she ran her fingers along the long, roughly repaired rent in the canvas. A head appeared at the tent's entrance, startling her. Sera. “You'll want some breakfast, right?” The elf grinned, pale hair puffed up from sleep like a damp dandelion “Well, if you do, you'd best get in quick. Half of it's gone mouldy from the rain, but Dorian's heated up the stuff that's still good. What say we hit that castle we saw yesterday? Still looked like it had _alive_ people in it. They've gotta have food.” Yawning and stretching her sore back, Elayne nodded an affirmative and the head withdrew.


End file.
